As the leaves change hues and the crisp breeze hits my face to welcome autumn, I can sense the pace of the year speeding faster than my mind can manage.

By October, friends start asking, “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” While our schedule is at the mercy of other extended family members’ plans, this question makes me long for the simplicity of the Thanksgivings of my childhood.

I remember learning about Thanksgiving through school, where the sanitized story of the Pilgrims and Native Americans was told. Cornucopia and harvest. My friends would talk about the various relatives they would get to see during the holiday and the food they would get to eat.

However, Thanksgiving at my home looked quite different. My house didn’t have the hustle and bustle of traditional sides, but instead the clanging of large pots from India for my mom to create her signature dish. Others were limited to extended family or just those in their household, but we had whole sets of families show up to our house who either didn’t have family in the country or were just looking for a place to belong. Steel folding chairs adorned the wall of our living room and basement. Our front door entrance was blocked by an abundance of shoes removed as guests entered. A spread of mismatched food genres and a flavorful punch my mom crafted from what seemed like her intuition alone. Aunties and Uncles would let their kids wander freely, knowing their children would have the oversight of others.

Though it was cozy in our home and the menu of food was seemingly limited, the culture of hospitality made a deep and lasting impact on me. While we didn’t have the means for a lofty party with an extended table, it never stopped my parents from inviting others from our church. Our table, always set for more.

In our South Asian community, growing up in the 90s and 2000s, we were tethered to our immigrant church as a source of identity, belonging, and safety. My parents, having ventured as the first in each of their families to come to America, knew the plight and isolation of life in America. They knew the loneliness, the fear, and the confusion one wrestles with in a new place. Their church became more than a place of worship. It became a home away from home, a place of belonging, and a place of spiritual, social, and cultural connection with others. 

When we saw new people at our church–couples, individuals, and families—we just understood Jesus’ call to love our neighbor. Motivated by empathy, we easily and practically extended Jesus’ heart of hospitality to others, who also felt disconnected from home.

Some would only attend for a season, as their families grew, or they moved, or maybe circumstances changed. But rather than counting the cost of the return on our investment, we’d invest, gather, and care for them all the same. 

And years later, that table created its own type of extended family where it wasn’t based on blood or family tree, but our collective commitment born from our faith and love. These aunties whose hearts ached for home would become like second daughters to my mom. Their children, like grandkids.

While we didn’t sit around the table to grace our food or share our gratitude like I’d seen on TV, my parents always opened our time with a song of worship and prayer. This legacy of faith in the room bound us together across immigration status, ages, and life seasons. The blending of spoken Malayalam and English filled the air—with the older generation making sure kids were eating enough, my family getting chairs for everyone to sit, and aunties urging my mom to get her food too.

We would line up at the table with the finest china or sometimes with paper plates, to get huge helpings of catered turkey and a multitude of Indian and American sides. But unlike a traditional Thanksgiving meal, the centerpiece was not the turkey but rather my mom’s lamb biriyani, cooked in ghee, with fried rice, marinated lamb, and a sprinkle of veggies too many to count. To this day, turkey doesn’t cut it.

When we were old enough, the kids gathered in our basement with its homage to the wood paneled wall and speckled carpet that were all the rage in the 90s. Over the shared space with our plates of Indian and American dishes, we’d relate to one another over the dynamics of immigrant parents and dual-culture life. We would laugh over stories of our parents trying (and failing) to understand 90s R&B, boybands, or the shows we watched. We tried to watch the latest Blockbuster hit before one of the little kids would interrupt. We poked fun and played games, probably similar to friends from school.

I never felt like I was missing out. And now, years later, I only have gratitude for these experiences that shaped me. By spending the holidays in this way, I never sought extended family to fill our table because my parents taught me that Church meant family. These threads of families that joined our table weaved a tapestry of belonging and love, depicting God’s heart for his Church.

Through that table, I learned that calling Jeena and Aeba, “Aunty,” was not only a way to show respect, but also a way to practice biblical kinship.

Through that table, I learned commiserating with other kids would build empathy, as we discovered shared experiences with one another.

Through that table, I learned a perfect table setting and decor was far less important than the care and love shared over time together.

Many of those aunties and uncles still pray for me, my children, and walk alongside my parents in this later season of their lives. It seems our table created a theology of church community I still search for today.

While it’s easy to get caught up in the standards of social media presentation or maybe a secret desire to entertain in a less-chaotic, more Western way, I’m rooted in the foundation of my childhood, and for that, I am forever grateful. Though I may not have the extra stash of folding chairs or the capacity my parents had to host that many guests, I carry their heart of belonging and welcome into our church and our home. As I anticipate another Thanksgiving, may my table be set for more. As Christ is building us into one household, may we extend our hearts and invitations beyond.

Rachel C. Varghese is a homeschooling mama, writer, communicator, and creative who desires to help people find healing and belonging — from their inner child to their place in the Church. In her free time, she loves exploring new coffee shops, adding to her bookshelves, playing music, and singing with her daughters. Rachel has been published in a blog hosted by Christianity Today, Chasing Justice, and Resolute Magazine. Connect with Rachel on Instagram, @rachelcvarghese, and at her Substack: rachelcvarghese.substack.com